by Ava Stone
Callie heaved a slight sigh. “Papa’s been gone so long, I barely remember him. And Mama passed on last year.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” he said, hating that he even broached the subject.
She shook her head as though to put him at ease. “She was very sick for many years, at least she’s in peace now.” Then she smiled up at him once more, and Braden felt it reverberate around his soul. “You mentioned your mother and sisters?”
“Step-mother,” he corrected automatically. Though there was nothing outwardly unpleasant about Lady Bradenham, she wasn’t his or Quent’s birth mother. They’d always felt a bit of contempt from her and had since the very first day she’d entered their lives.
Callie stopped along the path and blinked up at him with the most lovely shade of green eyes. “I feel there’s something you’re not saying.”
Braden bit back a smile. There was something about her, something that made him perfectly happy to share all of his secrets with her. “You want to know all the skeletons in the Post family closet, do you?”
She shrugged slightly. “You said we were friends.”
But even some of his friends didn’t know all of it. It had, after all, happened so long ago. “Well, she’s not a mean sort of woman, not really. But she made it clear early on that Quent and I were not her children. My aunt once confided to me that Lady Bradenham was jealous of my brother and me, which didn’t make a lot of sense at the time, but I can understand it better now.”
“Jealous?” she echoed, her pretty brow scrunched up into adorable wrinkles.
“Father already had an heir and a spare before they married,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Quent and I stood solidly in the way of her ever being able to give him the same. Looking back to those early days, I believe that definitely bothered her.”
“Such is the lot for any second wife.” Her frown deepened. “But certainly she knew of your existence before she married your father.”
Braden scoffed in response. His step-mother had been quite aware of his and Quent’s existence long before her marriage. “Yes, well, you see, she’d loved him for many years prior to that.”
Callie only blinked at him as though his statement didn’t make any sense at all.
So Braden heaved a sigh and told her the truth of it. “Apparently, she’d been father’s mistress long before my mother’s death. Then Father married her only a fortnight after Mother died, and—”
“Heavens!” she gasped. “A fortnight?”
Braden shrugged. “Fortunately, Quent and I were too young at the time to realized the scandal behind that.” Though they were certainly old enough now to recognize the disrespect the swiftness of their father’s second marriage had showed their mother and the whole of the Routledge family.
“And your sisters?” she asked. “Are you close with them?”
Braden smiled at the thought of his sisters. No matter that he and Quent didn’t particularly care for their step-mother, their sisters were another matter. “I adore the triplets, though—”
“Triplets?” Her green eyes widened in surprise.
Triplets were a rarity, of course. Braden nodded. “I do wish father had lived long enough to meet them. They truly are children born out of his love.” While he and Quent were children who had been born out of their father’s duty, but Braden didn’t say those words aloud. There was no point in drudging up that particular past.
“You said they were in Buckinghamshire?” she asked, starting once more for the vicarage entrance.
“Home at Highfield,” he agreed, keeping pace with her onto a small stone path. “Probably quite put out with me at the moment.”
“Why?” she asked.
Because they so often were and had been during the entirety of the last season. “At the moment because they haven’t been invited to our masquerade.”
A laugh escaped Callie. “You didn’t invite your own sisters?”
He certainly wasn’t about to explain the details around that particular decision: Thorn, Quent and the others’ obsession with masked girls who weren’t wearing drawers. So instead he said, “Well, they have no connection to Marisdùn. The castle came to me from my mother’s uncle.”
Thankfully, she nodded as though that made sense. “Lord Quentin did say your grandfather was from Ravenglass,” she said just as they reached the old wooden door of the vicarage.
“He did tell us quite a few tales from here when we were children.”
“You’ll have to tell me any you remember.” Callie grinned as she rapped lightly on the door.
But Braden had no intention of telling her any of the frightening tales his grandfather had told him as a child. Marisdùn already scared her enough as it was. Luckily, the door to the vicarage opened before he could reply, revealing a rather pretty brunette.
“Callie!” Lila said as she opened the door. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Callie reached into the basket Braden still held and retrieved the jar of Daphne Alcott’s rum butter. “You said you were fresh out yesterday.”
“Oh, you are the sweetest,” her friend said, opening the door wider and taking the jar from Callie.
“Daphne asked after you,” she said.
“I hope she’s well.”
Their friend had seemed quite well, even as she’d rushed Callie out the door as though there was some secret she wasn’t sharing.
“Come in, come in,” Lila continued, motioning Callie and Braden over the threshold.
Callie stepped inside the vicarage with Braden right behind her. As soon as the door closed behind them, she gestured to the handsome gentleman and said, “Lila Southward, this is the Marquess of Bradenham.”
“Lord Quentin’s brother.” Lila grinned up at Braden. “How nice to meet you.”
“Apparently, there’s some rock I should be apologizing for.” He frowned just a bit. “I haven’t heard the whole story, Miss Southward. I’m afraid to even ask the circumstances.”
Lila shook her head. “It’s of no consequence, Lord Bradenham. Truly, I’m fine. There’s no need for worry.” Then she pointed in the direction of the front sitting room. “Anna is off with her sketch book somewhere, and Papa and Tilly have gone to visit Mrs. Sewell, so we have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Mrs. Sewell isn’t feeling well again?” Callie asked, following her friend into the sitting room. The old baker’s widow had been quite ill, on and off of late.
Lila glanced over her shoulder, her brow lifted in amusement. “I am quite certain the woman’s ailments are designed specifically to lure Papa into visiting her.”
“Lila!” Callie laughed. “What a thing to say.”
Her friend shrugged. “Daphne says the woman’s in perfectly fine health, that Doctor Alcott can’t find a thing wrong with her. So I am convinced she feigns one illness or another every other week just to get Papa’s attention.” She dropped into a chintz chair near the hearth. “Though why she wants Papa’s attention is a complete mystery to me. Instead of dying, she might be better off bound for Bedlam.”
Callie laughed as she settled onto an old settee across from her friend, and Braden assumed the spot beside her. “He is a handsome man,” she said because the vicar was handsome, even if his personality did not quite match his outward appearance.
The expression Lila shot her said better than words could that a man’s outward appearance meant very little in the grand scheme of things. “Anyway, Lord Bradenham,” she began, clearly changing the subject, “it is nice to meet you. Your masquerade sounds like quite the event, at least the way your brother described it.”
“Does that mean you plan to attend, Miss Southward? I can’t get Callie to agree, but—”
Lila laughed as she shook her head. “Papa would never allow that. My sister, my cousin and I will be tucked into bed long before your revelry begins, after we’ve heard a long lecture about avoiding the appearance of evil; but I do hope I can persuade you or Lord Quentin to tell me all about it
the next day.”
“I’m certain that can be arranged,” he promised, sitting a bit forward on the settee and very subtly brushing his knee against Callie’s. His action was so slight, she was certain Lila couldn’t possibly have even noticed.
Warmth instantly flooded Callie, and she cast Braden a sidelong glance only to find a rather self-satisfied expression on his handsome face as though he knew exactly how his presence affected her. Heavens, she was in serious danger of melting right in the middle of Vicar Southward’s sitting room. Never in her wildest dreams would she have thought her day would take such a surprising turn. Who would have ever imagined she’d meet a gentleman like him in Ravenglass of all places? It wasn’t everyday, after all, that charming, eligible marquesses stumbled into this corner of Cumberland.
Braden was devastatingly handsome, he seemed noble to a fault, and Callie had never met a man who could make her heart flutter in her chest. Though their acquaintance had been brief, part of her felt like she’d known him forever. He’d been so sincere in telling her the story of his family, which she’d found more than endearing and only made her wanted to know more. In fact, she wanted to know everything about him, about Highfield, about his likes and dislikes, which entertainments he preferred, his hopes, his dreams. Everything.
“Callie?” Lila’s voice interrupted her musings.
“Oh!” Callie sat a little taller. “I am sorry. I was woolgathering.”
“I can tell,” her friend laughed, making Callie think that perhaps Lila could see more than she’d first thought. But even that realization did nothing to douse Callie’s fire. In that instant, she doubted anything could.
Brighid glanced around at the plants. Some were in need of harvesting but that would require her to return to the herbarium for her twine and boleen, which she could not yet do. Instead, she bent to weeding so she could to remain outside. She was shaken by the protection around the herbarium being broken. It had been in place for decades and she stupidly escorted one of the blood of the castle over the threshold. Hopefully it was protected again or they could all be in trouble, especially this close to Samhain. Given the rumored portal was directly below the room, she shuddered to think what could happen at midnight.
No, she mustn’t think on it. It was just a legend and for all she knew, a made up tale to keep the owners and their families away from the herbarium. Or, perhaps it was a story invented to scare children so they didn’t stumble into the room and eat something that could harm them.
Just because the castle was haunted, didn’t mean there was an evil that had wanted to see her ancestors destroyed. Years ago, right before Mrs. Routledge disappeared, the woman had banished her family from the castle. They were not allowed to take anything from the herbarium, but Brighid’s great-grandmother had cast a protection spell surrounding the room to keep Mrs. Routledge from destroying or using the magic for herself.
Brighid had scoffed at the idea that any of them ever possessed magic. It was more likely the two women did not like each other and had a falling out.
But how did she explain the gusts of wind?
No, she mustn’t think on it. She pulled harder at the weeds.
A shadow fell over her and Brighid glanced up. Her mood lightened at seeing her dearest friend, Anna Southward. “Here to study the statues again?”
Her friend dropped to the ground beside her. “Forget the statues. Have you noticed the gentlemen who have arrived?” Anna’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “I wouldn’t mind painting or sculpting one of them.”
Brighid couldn’t help but laugh. Anna was always looking for new subjects for her art. There were few to be had in Ravenglass.
“I am sure none of them would mind posing for you.” David Thorn immediately came to mind and even though Brighid did not know him well, she believed he would jump at the chance to remove his clothing and pose if any woman asked. Not that Anna would be so bold. Her uncle, Vicar Southward, would probably have an apoplexy if she did. The poor man had no idea what to do with the unconventional and artistic niece he gained guardianship of six years ago. Anna was now twenty and even bolder than before, just stopping short in her behavior, and art, to keep from ruining herself.
“If only it were possible.” Anna sighed as she stood. “Care to walk into Ravenglass with me?”
Brighid mulled over the idea. It would get her away from the castle. Blake wouldn’t need tea yet, and he certainly didn’t need her. If he did need anything, there was already a woman to see to whatever necessity he might have. Besides, she still hadn’t obtained her rum butter from Daphne. She pushed to her feet. “I would be happy to.”
Anna talked on and on about the gentlemen she had seen about the grounds of Marisdùn, unable to decide which was more handsome, or who had the best bone structure, and if she would be able blend the right paints to match their eye and hair coloring to perfection, though she really wished to sculpt them. Anna was determined to create her own David, having fallen in love with Michelangelo’s statue when she visited Florence before her parents died.
“Will you be going to the masquerade?” Anna asked.
The last thing Brighid wished to do was celebrate Samhain at a castle already full of ghosts. Lord Bradenham and his guests were asking for mischief, whether they realized it or not, and she wanted no part of it. She preferred to remain safe in her cottage with her grandmother. Only the brave—or the very foolish—venture out of doors after sundown on Samhain. “No. Are you?”
Anna grinned. “Of course! Not that my uncle is aware, nor have I received an invitation, but I am not about to let that stop me from enjoying the most exciting thing that will ever happen in Ravenglass.”
Brighid thought to warn her friend, but held her tongue. If she spouted what she knew of and feared on this night, Anna would only laugh at her. Or worse, start calling her a witch like Blake did.
Upon reaching town, the two split up. Anna returned to the vicarage. Brighid walked on to the Alcotts. Once again no one was at home so she slid a note under the door to let Daphne know she was in need of more jars of butter rum. As she turned back toward Marisdùn, the sky began to darken. She quickened her pace to avoid getting caught in the rain.
If someone had told Daphne Alcott a week ago that she’d be sitting on a picnic blanket with a peer of the realm hearing him wax poetic about her rum butter, she never in a million years would have believed them.
“You really like it?” she pressed, and then he pressed his mouth to her hand.
“I do not flatter people for flattery’s sake, Miss Alcott. I pride myself on my diplomacy, and my sincerity. So you may rest assured that I am completely sincere in my praise of your rum butter.”
Daphne knew her rum butter was good and that it was well loved in the area, but hearing him say how much he liked it made her want to take a flying leap into his arms and kiss his face with gratitude. Of course, she didn’t. She sat right where she was, afraid to move a muscle. He’d have to let go of her hand at some point—surely he was anxious to eat the rest of his bread pudding—but Daphne didn’t want it to end a moment too soon.
A gust of wind pick up in that very moment, though, prompting both of them to look heavenward.
“Oh, dear,” Daphne murmured.
“Looks as if our picnic might be cut short.” He withdrew his hand and sat back again. Daphne missed him already. “But not before I finish my bread pudding.”
That brought a smile to her face. He liked it so much he was willing to risk being caught in a downpour to eat it.
Daphne took a few bites of her own in between repacking the picnic basket. Silence reigned between them, since his lordship didn’t seem to want to take a breath between bites. But then a drop of rain, and then another, pelted Daphne in the face, startling her. She looked to Lord Wolverly, only to find him grinning up at her with barely veiled mirth, but he didn’t make fun of her for being a bit jumpy. Rather, he came to his feet and reached a hand down to help her up. Daphne accepted the
assistance and welcomed his lingering hand that seemed reluctant to release her.
“I’d better get you out of this rain before you catch your death.”
Daphne smiled. “Fortunately, my brother is the doctor, so you needn’t worry for my health.”
“I will worry just the same.” He winked at her before he finally let go of her hand and set to collecting their picnic basket and blanket.
They walked quickly back to town, and Daphne, though she had a doctor for a brother, was quite glad the rain held off long enough for them to make it home. By the time they arrived at her door, there was a gentle mist soaking them slowly but surely.
“Thank you, Miss Alcott, for a lovely afternoon,” Lord Wolverly said, a gentle smile on his lips.
“You can’t go home in this,” Daphne replied, refusing to say goodbye to him already. “Then you will catch your death. Please, come inside, just until the rain passes.”
The viscount glanced up and down the street, and Daphne wondered if he was looking for a way out of spending more time with her. How heartbreaking and disappointing that would be. But at long last, he leveled her with those earnest dark eyes.
“I would appreciate it very much,” he said. “However, I fear there will be repercussions, Miss Alcott, should a bachelor enter your home without a chaperone present.”
Blast. Daphne had never had need of a chaperone. How frustrating.
“Well, then,” she said, trying desperately to keep the disappointment from her tone. “I shouldn’t keep you. The longer you stand here, the wetter you’ll get.”
His lips twitched up on one end, and it seemed as if he might be biting the inside of this cheek to keep from laughing, or perhaps saying whatever was on his mind. But in the next moment, he handed over the picnic supplies, tipped his hat, and said, “Until tomorrow, Miss Alcott.”
She watched him go, heedless of the rain, uncaring if she got soaked through to the bone, just for one last lingering glimpse of Viscount Wolverly.
Blake wished he could sleep but it eluded him. He was feverish, aching, and all around miserable. At least his head wasn’t pounding as fiercely as before, but his stomach still churned. It was damned frustrating to lie in bed with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling or the door, hoping someone would come in and entertain him.
